


Find Some Therapy (because grieving takes too long)

by exposeyou



Series: I'm With The Band [6]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-21
Updated: 2011-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-18 11:47:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exposeyou/pseuds/exposeyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jude tries to make an effort, and starts keeping a diary again</p>
            </blockquote>





	Find Some Therapy (because grieving takes too long)

Dear diary,

So I’m supposed to write down my thoughts and feelings here. This is probably a good thing, it is what Ewan does all the time for songs and God knows we need a few more of those right now. Today Portia visited and reminded me how long we have for Eminence Front, as if I didn’t know. But now I feel as if I can confront it for the first time without feeling sick to my stomach. They want to by the middle of the summer. So we have three months, at least, maybe four. I’m glad she didn’t have to lay down the law and give me an exact date. I think something concrete would have been too much to handle.

It was awkward, seeing her. It would be tempting to say that she only came because it is her job, but what has happened has changed things. I still don’t want to trust her, though.

Dear diary,

I went to the music room today. The bedrooms aren’t soundproofed or anything, so they don’t like you to play in there, in case you disturb people. I suppose the amount of musicians they get here, they had to have somewhere where you could play. A sign on the door said that there is ‘musical therapy’ in there every Thursday morning. Thank God it clashes with my CBT. I’d had to get stuck in the middle of a bunch of hippy chanting. Still, I think I like it there. There is a sofa and a few beanbags, and a cd rack full of whale music and crap like that. There’s a big battered black drumkit in one corner. I don’t like to look at it.

Handily, the French windows open onto a courtyard with a bit of a lawn, so I can go outside to smoke. I guess they’re sensible enough to realise that if you’re trying to wean people off of drink and drugs, trying to get them off of nicotine at the same time is a long shot.

 

Dear diary,

I saw my psychiatrist today. We’re going to try something new. I’m not sure how I feel about it. I want to get better, but I hate the thought of shovelling more drugs into my body. Ironically.  
I’m missing music badly. I’ve been here a week, and heard nothing but the new age stuff they put on in one of the meditation classes. I feel like an island without any water. They said I couldn’t bring my iPod, something about the headphones being a ‘risk’, but I’m allowed to have my guitar as long as I don’t disturb the other ‘guests’. I suppose they don’t think I could bring myself to do that to myself with my own instrument, though I think it would be fucking poetic.

 

Dear diary,

A woman had a panic attack in the cafeteria today. She was just crying quietly into her food at first, then it became gulping sobs, and soon she was red in the face and gasping as if she were drowning. It was horrible to watch, but everyone did. Luckily a nurse was around to help her and get her out, but until then it was like some kind of car crash, with people gawping at her. I’m ashamed to say, I was one of them.

That is how I feel all the time. On show and raw. Like something alive and peeled. Isn’t that a horrible image? Like that Murakami book.

I hate eating in the cafeteria. It is the place where that feeling is the worst. I know that it isn’t as if everyone knows me in here, but I still feel like I’m being stared. It makes it hard to breathe sometimes. I’m not sure that I can go back in there, after today.

 

Dear diary,

Ewan brought me some of the new promo stuff today. He promised he would, the last time he came. Normally he brings cigarettes and a bag of the coffee I like, which I appreciate, but this is more exciting.

There’s everything, posters, badges, stickers, even a lighter. The t-shirts are pretty cool, though they had to be redesigned, Ewan said. Obviously a photo of the three of us wouldn’t really work now, so they just have the band name on the front, grey on black. On the reverse, ‘Eminence Front: the new album. Coming Soon.’

Coming soon. What if we want to rename the fucking thing, huh?

They’d be sorry then. If they’re not sorry now.

 

Dear diary,

Portia had a word. I can have my iPod, but I can only use it ‘under supervision’ or in public areas. I have to hand it in at reception before I go back to my room. I don’t even care about the indignity of beign treated like a child, to be honest, I’m just glad to have my music back.

She tried to persuade them to let me take my meals in my room, if it’ll make me more comfortable, but no such luck. Socialisation is important for recovery, apparently. Maybe I can bear it if I put my headphones in, block everything out a bit.

I wonder if anyone in the visiting room has ever mistaken Portia for Sadie. I think if you’d only read about Sadie in magazines, it would be possible. They’re both quite short, with short dark hair, and a no-nonsense, vicious attitude.

I’ve looked into both their eyes and felt like I’m going to be eaten.

 

Dear diary,

Maybe I should start writing every day. Maybe I should start writing things that actually matter. I wonder if I’ll burn this book when I get out of here.

 

Dear Diary,

Is it even possible to hang yourself with a guitar string?


End file.
